


you are my mission

by hapsburgs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Gallagher Girls Series - Ally Carter
Genre: F/M, M/M, Winter Soldier AU, lmao i'm trash, post World War II au ftw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapsburgs/pseuds/hapsburgs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let me tell you, anything you think you remember? Those memories are not real. They are figments of your imagination, what the vile dissenters want you to believe. Your life before us does not matter."</p>
<p>//a winter soldier au continuation of 'war machines.'//</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are my mission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teesandjays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teesandjays/gifts).



> happy birthday, tonya! 
> 
> i can't believe i actually wrote this considering i hated the winter soldier but here i am being garbage lmao. i knew this was going to be your bday fic since i wrote you the first one for christmas so here you go enjoy i love you.
> 
> (i was so close to writing you a hockey playing, harry styles captain america au but)

“Do you know who you are?” The Major asks in her trademark clipped tone, arms folded tightly behind her and back erect as she paces in front of him, heeled boots clicking loudly on the cheap linoleum floor.

“No.” He gulps, before correcting himself. “ _Nyet_.”

“Then let me tell you.” She stops crisply in front of him, shoulders perfectly square. “You were a very smart, powerful soldier, Agent. _We_ found you, _we_ trained you, and now, you are going to serve your country in the best way you know how.”

“But what about my name? My home? My-”

“None of that matters anymore.” She leans in close, grabbing his chin so he’s forced to look into her iron eyes. “Your home? It is this great Soviet Union. Your _family_? That, is your countrymen. And your _name_? Your name is _Agent_.” She lets go of him, pushing him away as she rises to full height. “Tell me - you don’t remember anything before your training, do you?”

“ _Nyet_.” He shakes his head, ignoring the half-formed memories of a boy with bright brown eyes and even brighter smiles.

“You lie.” Her eyes narrow. “Let me tell you, anything you think you remember? Those memories are not real. They are figments of your imagination, what the vile dissenters want you to believe. Your life before us does not matter. And what you are going to do for us now, my _little Winter Soldier_ ,” She says the epithet like a sugary sweet dagger, and he tries to ignore the shiver that runs up his spine. “will change the world. Now, what do you say?”

“ _Hail Hydra_.” He whispers, and her smirk reminds him of some kind of delicious poison.

“ _Hail Hydra_ , indeed.”

* * *

March, 1947. Nebraska. Early spring. The last of the winter snows still clings to the land, and dull grey skies fade into dead, stagnant earth. Hot breath clouds in the icy atmosphere and the smell of a dying fire lingers in the air.

“You know, you told me you lived on a farm,” Private Rachel Cameron enters the dilapidated barn slowly, taking in the rotting timber and the smell of damp hay. “But I never quite expected _this_.”

“What are you doing here, Rachel?" He doesn't turn around at her words, shoulders slack and voice exhausted. The smile slips off of her face, and she wraps her arms around herself as she takes a hesitant step forward. He used to joke with her, Matt. He would stumble over his words a little and make a fool out of himself, but that was years ago. Not anymore. Not since -

“We need your help in New York.” She shakes the thought away, and she lets out a weary sigh as he turns around to face her because he looks like himself, but not really - his eyes, his face are the same but he looks tired, his mouth is slightly downturned and his skin looks grey, he sort of stands hunched in on himself, and his eyes are dark and dull and it nearly makes her shed a tear because this is not _America’s Hero_ , this is just -

“Not how you remember?” He bites, masked as a joke, when he notices her staring. She shakes her head, struggling for a reply, but he lets her off the hook, stepping around her to go pet the mare in the corner, all big dark eyes and shiny coat. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

“The SSR wants your help dealing with threats from the Soviet Union.” She amends, and he laughs sourly.

“Matthew Morgan, the United States’s own personal human weapon! To be used whenever they want. First in the war, now on the homefront.”

“We need you, Matt.” She whispers. “I need you.”

His smile is brittle as the horse whinnies nervously, as if sensing an oncoming storm.

“And how could I deny that?”

* * *

In a dirty studio apartment nestled between two crumbling townhouses on a smoky, forgotten street in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge, Matthew Morgan dreams.

_The rain taps incessantly on the rusted tin roof, something akin to bullets, but more highpitched in a way that makes his jaw clench. He can see his breath as he shivers, searching for a light, and there's a laugh in the corner and_ he _is here with him, and he smiles, finally warm and finally whole in this wartime shack, with him._

_But_ he _morphs into something unrecognizable right in front of him, smile turning sour and vicious and it sends a shiver up his spine. Army fatigues turn back with tripping blood, skin snow white and bruised, and as_ he s _teps forwards, his arm snaps off at the shoulder with a sickening crack, sinew and bone shining wet in the moonlight, and his eyes are chilling and_ he _makes a strangled and foreign sound as_ he l _unges for him and -_

The thin plaster walls barely drown out his screams.

* * *

“What do you dream of, _soldat_?” She asks, head tilting in a way that reminds him of an examination, like she’s looking down at some lower being and trying to understand it.

“Nothing.” He shrugs, eyes focused on a point far away.

“ _Lies_ ,” She hisses, and it sounds something like shattering glass. She leans down, bloody hair forming a curtain around her face. “Try again.”

“There’s a man,” He admits. “And he smiles at me, like we’re friends.”

“He _smiles_.” She raises an incredulous brow, and he can feel his face harden into stone.

“He likes the stars.” He whispers, not daring to look down at his feet. “I don’t know how I know that, though.”

“And where do you know this starry eyed young gentlemen from?” She asks, her calmness somehow mocking.

“I...don’t know.” He admits, finally breaking her gaze and his eyebrows scrunch together in an attempt at remembrance. “I can never quite see his face.”

“Perhaps this _boy_ is the part of your past that you cannot let go.” She analyzes, and as she straightens the roll of her shoulders is nothing short of predatory. “I would advise you to kill this boy, and let the true soldier and defender of the Soviets be born.”

She stops just short of the door. “Forget these dreams, _soldat_.” She says sternly. “It does not do well to dwell on the past.”

* * *

“We’ve linked together the murders of several SSR operatives to a suspected HYDRA cell working in New York.” Rachel informs him in a cramped office somewhere downtown. “We think this is the leader.” She hands him a picture of an attractive young woman, deadly cheekbones and a sinister smirk. “Major Ekaterina Alexandrovna Gregorovich. Born in St. Petersburg, during the fall of the Tsar.”

“She should be easy to recognize. She certainly stands out.” He hands her back the picture.

“She’s deadly, Matt.” She reminds him. “And she’ll have a whole host of lackies with her.” She shakes her head. “You should see some of the bodies we’ve retrieved. The injuries look almost...inhuman.”

“We’ll get them.” He assures her, but when he sees the pictures of corpses with limbs ripped off, he isn’t so sure.

* * *

 Queens is burning.

Well, a solid block of it, anyway.

Shattered glass coats the streets and smoke billows in the sunny sky, making it hard to see. Ash coats his lungs and distant sirens ring in his ears. His eyes are watering, but he still manages to catch movement out of the corner of his gaze, and he ducks just in time.

And whoever this is, he’s strong, clothing charred and covered and blood and this seems oddly familiar. _Is that a metal arm?_

And finally, _finally,_ locked arm and arm, bleeding and broken, they lock eyes, and Matt is certain he has seen a ghost.

_“Joe?”_

* * *

* * *

* * *

****  
  
_“Matt?”_ **  
**

 


End file.
